


Four Conversations with Assorted Barrayarans

by gumbie_cat



Category: Vorkosigan Saga - Lois McMaster Bujold
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-25
Updated: 2011-12-25
Packaged: 2017-10-28 02:32:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/302778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gumbie_cat/pseuds/gumbie_cat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mark Vorkosigan in conversation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Four Conversations with Assorted Barrayarans

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Wolfling](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wolfling/gifts).



> With thanks to my #yuletide beta, who made this story much better than it was.

**  
Simon Illyan   
**

It was alternately strange and strangely reassuring to find himself on Barrayar. This was the place Mark'd been trained almost his whole life to fit in to. But some of his instincts from his time on the run were still proving useful. He marched straight up to Simon Illyan and glared at him. "You're having me followed, aren't you?"

"Of course, Lord Mark. Your safety while on planet is ImpSec's responsibility." Illyan's face was unfailingly bland. Mark found it maddening.

"My safety, or other’s safety? And don't call me that!"

"Primarily the first, my lord, but both as necessary."

"Like that's any better," he muttered. "Why do you care so much? Or are you going to try and convince me that you throw this much security at every second son of a Count?"

"Every second son? Perhaps not. Every Prime Minister's son is a different matter."

"And that's the only reason, is it?" Mark scoffed.

"I rarely have only one reason for doing anything, my lord. In your case, I have sworn my personal loyalty to your father and mother. For that reason if no other I would wish to keep you safe if possible. I've failed Countess Vorkosigan twice, you see. I didn't stop the soltoxin attack before Miles’s birth, and I did not discover your existence and bringing you to her. If I had held a blade to her throat I think she could have forgiven me for it. Instead I failed to prevent harm coming to her children. That’s far worse."

"I'm not her child." It was true, dammit, even if no one but him seemed to realise it.

Illyan laughed without humour. "I'll leave it up to you to convince the Countess of that, Lord Mark, if you please. Fighting loosing battles is my job, not my hobby."

* * *

 **  
Cordelia Vorkosigan   
**

"Mark..."

"That is _not_ my name."

"All right."

"All... right?"

"Well, we're not going to insist on it, kiddo. I'm sure Miles thought he was being very clever when he came up with that. He usually does."

"It's the way things are done here, isn't it? The name thing?"

"Sure. But that doesn't mean we always have to do them that way. We thought it might be easier, one less thing to have to choose. But then it's also one more thing that's been chosen for you."

"It's... strange," he told her. "Barrayar is where I was trained to fit in, I was never trained to lead a mercenary fleet. But that was easier, almost. I only had to act like Miles, as hard as I could. Here I have to be myself, but I don't know who that is. I don't know who Lord Mark Pierre Vorkosigan is."

Cordelia studied at him for a long moment. "You don't have to stay here, you know. You have other options, other family. My mother lives on Beta Colony, and you have an uncle and cousins there too," she grinned at him. "Actual cousins, not cousins like Ivan."

"And they'd think of me as family too, would they?"

"Oh, yes. Far more easily than people here. And even if they didn't, having been cloned on Jackson's Whole and getting away successfully would be reason enough for Beta to grant you asylum and citizenship. But cloning is far more common and accepted there. Not, of course, for the reasons you or your crèche-mates were cloned."

"Of course not," he agreed bitterly. "That wouldn't be civilised."

Cordelia shrugged, acknowledging the point. Then she frowned, struck by a sudden thought. "You know," she said slowly, "I'm certain this never occurred to Miles, but under Betan laws and customs you could just as easily be considered Miles's son as his brother."

"His son he had when he was all of six years old?" He scoffed. "That's ridiculous."

"We're talking legally, not practically, love. And if you were his son," she hesitated, which was not like her. He raised an encouraging eyebrow at her, curious. "If you were his son... According to Barrayaran custom, Miles's first born son ought to be named Aral."

He stared at her utterly speechless with horror.

"Yeah," she smiled at him. "Let's file that one under 'things could always be worse,' shall we?"

* * *

 **  
Gregor Vorbarra   
**

Sitting across from Gregor Vorbarra in the Emperor's private sitting room, drinking tea from excessively dainty cups, Mark found it almost impossible to believe he'd once wanted to have this man's job. But then, it hadn't really been the _job_ he'd wanted. He hadn't given any thought to the work and responsibility involved in running an Empire that spanned three planets. Mark had only been thinking of the power involved, the power and the safety he'd thought that that power would bring him. Which really showed what a damned young idiot he'd been back then.

Gregor was welcome to it: to Barrayar, to the Empire, and to the Vorkosigans. Welcome to the whole mad lot of them.

"There's something I've often wondered," Gregor began. "And you seem uniquely qualified to satisfy my curiosity: tell me, is it as exhausting as it looks, being Miles Vorkosigan?"

"No," said Mark, flatly. "It's worse."

Gregor laughed, then started coughing and Mark was momentarily afraid the Emperor was choking on his tea. That was the last thing Mark needed, for a second prominent Barrayaran to collapse in his vicinity. Luckily Gregor quickly regained his composure.

"I'm sorry," he said. "It can't have been much fun for you. It's stressful enough just sitting back and watching him go. Though being right there with him isn't all that much better," he said, pouring them each a fresh cup from the pot. Mark, who hadn't much enjoyed the last one, tried to look grateful. "You know, I once had to come up with an alias for myself."

"Really?" It was difficult to imagine what sort of circumstances would require the Emperor to have to forge a fake identity. Surely he had people for that sort of thing. "What did you choose?"

Gregor looked suddenly rather abashed and rueful, as if he had somehow failed to anticipate this rather obvious follow up question. "I... Ah, perhaps it would be best if I didn't... It wouldn't serve as any sort of example, except perhaps a negative one. It had the advantage of being easy to remember, but was rather too indicative of my mental state at the time. Like one those free association word games psychologists seem so fond of. In any case, Miles was far from impressed and made certain to let me know it. Repeatedly."

"As if he can talk when Admiral Miles Naismith was the best he could come up with. Talk about showing your issues in public," Mark muttered, resentful.

"Good point," Gregor acknowledged with a smile. "Though, in his defence, he was very young."

"And judging from the current evidence," Mark said, ignoring the last and gesturing at himself. "He's not any better when it comes to naming other people. All he's doing is following the rules, the way things would have gone if I'd been born here when he was six. If things had been normal. But they weren't and they aren't and he can't _make_ the name fit." He sat back, panting, surprised by his own outburst. The Emperor, as always, seemed unruffled.

"No," said Gregor thoughtfully. "No Miles certainly can't, but perhaps you can. If you choose to."

* * *

 **  
Aral Vorkosigan   
**

Mark found Aral in the family graveyard. The Count had been spending a lot of time there since coming to Vorkosigan Surleau to recuperate. Making peace with his ghosts and settling in to his new heart, according to the Countess. He was standing with his hands clasped behind his back, contemplating one of the many graves, with a ceremonial offering burning at his feet. As Mark came to stand next to him Aral gestured at the gravestone.

"My elder brother. He was always the smart one, the brave one. My hero. I was never supposed to be Lord Vorkosigan, you know, or Count Vorkosigan. Let alone Admiral, or Regent, or Prime Minister. It was all supposed to be him, but I was the only one left. I had to live for both of us." He turned and clasped Mark's shoulders. "I don't want you to live like that, to think like that, do you understand? Even if we hadn't got Miles back, whether or not you call yourself Mark, if you decide to leave Barrayar and never come back. You have to live your own life, make your own choices, be happy. That's all we want, from you or for you."

"Oh, is that all?" Flippancy seemed the only safe response to that and Aral responded in kind.

"Well, the occasional postcard might be nice. Cards at Winterfair, that sort of thing." Aral shook him gently and let his hands fall back to his side.

"I think I might be able to manage that much,” said Mark. “It'll ease me in to this whole family thing gently."

"You're doing fine, son. You're doing fine."


End file.
